


You've Never Been More Loved

by Jberry



Series: Hamish [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hamish is into science and experiments, Hamish writes a ten page thesis, John Loves Sherlock, John Watson is a Saint, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Parentlock, Romantic Fluff, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock and Hamish try John's patience, Sherlock and John love Hamish, Sherlock loves having a family, alternative universe, it's so fluffy I'm gonna die, john watson's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-04-25
Packaged: 2018-03-18 14:56:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3573875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jberry/pseuds/Jberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock meets John and his son for the first time at a crime scene.<br/> </p><p>   Check out this sweet fanart from be-there-now-in-a-minute that inspired chap 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Decaying Leaves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Atiki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atiki/gifts).



John knew he must have looked an absolute fool. His fingers were tingling, his face was pink with anticipation. He went with Sherlock to brunch, proud of the beautiful man on his arm. As they neared the restaurant, John called his parents. He felt like a teenager, reporting back to them that they'd have to keep Hamish for a while. Sherlock and he were on a date and working things out. 

John hardly finished a sentence with his parents when Hamish demanded to be passed the phone. Now eight years old, Hamish had never had tantrums, even when he was a toddler. This morning, John heard his son having a full blown meltdown.When nothing worked to quiet the child, John's parents relented and handed Hamish the phone. John had to stop outside the restaurant and let go of Sherlock's hand so he could plug one of his ears. 

"Daddy?" Hamish sniffled, "Are you okay? Is Mr. Detective with you?"

John grinned at Sherlock. Sherlock moved closer so he could hear. 

"Yes, sweetheart, Mr. Detective is here," John said, "We're going on a date, honey, to talk about some things-"

"Daddy, I need to talk to Mr. Detective."

John spent three minutes going through all the reasons that it was not appropriate for Hamish to talk to Sherlock, or to get in the middle of their relationship. Hamish was in such a state that John's father jumped on the line and implored John to "simply let the boy talk to Mr. Detective before he hyperventilates."

John handed Sherlock the phone, and Sherlock held it away from his face as if it were a snake. Hamish was crying and causing the speaker to crackle and whine. Sherlock attempted to speak, but Hamish would talk over him and continue down his train of thought. Sherlock was reduced to nodding and humming in agreement, with John leaning in, only catching every third word. Sherlock asked if Hamish wanted to talk to his father again, but Hamish had already hung up the phone. 

Sherlock stared ahead, his mouth open, eyes unfocused. John shook his shoulder, "What did Hamish talk to you about?"

After a few moments Sherlock shook his head, handing the phone back to John, "Here," and gave a gesture that John couldn't interpret. Sherlock put his hands in his pockets, his gaze now on his shoes. 

John pocketed the phone, then pulled Sherlock's hand out of his pocket so he could hold it, "Sherlock, what was that about?"

Sherlock looked up, "I'm not sure, but I believe your son just read off a 10 page thesis on why you two should move into my flat immediately. Not in a week, or a month. Now. He included the pros and cons of such a decision, and how we, Mrs. Hudson included, would all benefit overall from this decision. Hamish mentioned a few times the need for a real laboratory. He also went over some type of cost benefit analysis that I couldn't quite follow."

Sherlock, one of the most intelligent and amazing people he knew, had just been rendered nearly speechless by an eight year old. 

John burst into great belly laughter, holding his sides. A few minutes later, an older woman leaving the restaurant gave him a dirty look, asking if they were still drunk from the night before. That didn't help, it only caused Sherlock to join into the laughing fit. 

\-----

After brunch, John and Sherlock went back to John's flat to discuss Hamish's proposal. John's father was on the couch, his mother in a chair. They both had their heads tilted backwards and were snoring.They were covered in cut out bits of paper, as if they were furniture. The living room was a disaster. There was a notebook spread out with more cut out photos, notes, and diagrams. John knew that if he hadn't forbade taping papers on the wall that's where all of this would be. 

They heard a noise coming from Hamish's room. When they knocked on the door, they found Hamish surrounded with a half circle of boxes and trash bags. He was sorting through his toys and clothes, marking them off of a list. John cleared his throat. 

Hamish turned around, his smile bright as he saw Sherlock and John standing shoulder to shoulder in his doorway. 

"Mr. Detective!" Hamish yelled. John heard a thump of someone in the living room fall out of their chair. "Mr. Detective, I missed you!" He ran up to Sherlock, his arms wrapping around his middle. As Hamish leaned in closer, John smelled a strange odor. 

"Hamish!" John sniffed, bending down to look at Hamish more closely, "Why does your room smell so terrible? What have you been doing?"

Hamish stepped back a bit, smiling up at both of them. He held onto Mr. Detective's sleeve as he spoke, "I was practicing doing experiments. I've been decaying leaves from different areas at different times to determine how they mold and decay. I've been writing it in my journal. It might come in useful. If someone goes into the leaves, and they are on their shoes, and where they come from…"

Hamish continued to go on about his experiment. John leaned over and kissed Sherlock, and kissed Hamish, "You need to clean it up!"

Sherlock and Hamish were both indignant. Sherlock mentioned that knowing information about leaves would be valuable in detective work, and Hamish huffed that he was almost done and if he let him finish he wouldn't bring it to Sherlock's flat. Sherlock offered to help Hamish finish the experiment and clean up the mess. 

John shook his head, "I'm out numbered with you two."

He went to make himself some tea.


	2. Fire Cracker

John and Sherlock had set a date two months out for them to move in together. Hamish wished it was immediately, but even he didn't always get what he wanted. 

As the date neared, Hamish was a firecracker. He bounced around the flat from place to place, labeling the boxes according to what items would be placed in what room. John would catch Hamish and Sherlock talking in a corner about where they would place items in their lab and how they would arrange spaces so they each could work. 

In the middle of packing, John was fixing dinner, letting the other two boys sort. He looked over at Sherlock. He was sitting on the floor with his arms over his knees, rocking slightly, almost imperceptibly. 

"Sherlock, come help me with these sandwiches," John called into the living room. Sherlock didn't move. Sherlock didn't move until Hamish nudged his shoulder, "Daddy is calling for you, Mr. Detective."

Sherlock rose from the floor, taking one last look at Hamish before entering the kitchen. He wouldn't make eye contact with John. 

"Sherlock, what is wrong?" John reached out and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. 

"I've got to keep you two safe. I don't know if I can keep you two safe, my line of work is dangerous," Sherlock stepped closer to John, talking softly, "I would never forgive myself if anything happened. I worry constantly. I just don't know if I can do this."

John pulled Sherlock into a hug, kissing him soundly, "That's what it's like to be a parent, Sherlock, constantly worrying. Always concerned something completely out of your control is going to happen. It's a constant state of anxiety. You just do the best you can." Sherlock's lower lip trembled, "What if it's my fault? I go against criminals sometimes. What if they target me? Then you, or Hamish?"

John put his forehead on Sherlock's,"Are you saying you don't want us to live with you? Is this too much?"

Sherlock shook his head, "No, I want you two there with me, but I don't want to endanger you. I don't want to make you a target."

John smiled, "Hamish got rid of that kidnapper with a chair. I wouldn't discount his ability to defend himself completely. And, frankly, I'd be more afraid if we didn't move in together. He was extremely vicious when he thought we'd broken up."

John hugged Sherlock to himself, allowing his head to fall onto his chest. Sherlock sighed, rubbing his hand up and down John's back. They didn't hear Hamish walk up beside them. 

"Daddy, Mr. Detective?" He looked up at them, his eyebrows together. His hair was especially bright blonde today, almost translucent. His freckles were hidden today under his reddened cheeks. John knew he'd also had freckles when he was younger, but they'd faded over time. He hoped Hamish's would stay. 

Hamish hugged them both, his head coming up to their chests. He was only able to reach half way around their middles, but his grip was strong. He looked up at both of them, "I will help protect you. I have been studying poisons, well, not poisons, really, more of stunning agents. I can put them around our flat, and they won't _kill_ anyone, really, just knock them out, I think I've got the chemical ratio correct. But, I need a lab with a ventilation thingy and safety googles and I need a new chemistry book, the last one got eaten up by something, not sure, it turned blue and ended up a blob under the bed-"

Sherlock had to shut John's jaw with a quick snap of his forefinger. He was smiling at him, "I'll handle this, John." Sherlock stepped out of the hug, bent down and took Hamish's hand. They went into the living room together, whispering. 

John watched the two of them for the next thirty minutes. They were bent over a couple of boxes, using a pencil and a marker to draw diagrams of some type on the box tops. He only caught snippets of their conversation. From what he could tell, they were configuring the laboratory and planning out where everything would fit. Both of them were grinning, each taking turns talking and writing something new on the bits of cardboard lying around the room. 

When they'd arranged for movers to help with the rest, and friends to help move some of the more delicate items, Sherlock and Hamish were careful to take charge of the boxes they drew on. Sherlock went so far as to cover the tops of the boxes with his coat so the diagrams and drawings were hidden from others, even from John. 

"Am I doomed?" John asked, as they rocked back and forth in the back of a cab. Sherlock grinned, "No, you're just lucky we aren't doing these experiments in the kitchen."

Unloading the boxes into Sherlock's sparse apartment, the rooms filled up quickly. John caught Sherlock biting his lip as the movers were loading the last boxes into his laboratory. "Sherlock, is this too much?" John rubbed his arm, "I know you're used to your space."

"No, don't misunderstand me," Sherlock pulled him into a kiss, "If I'm overwhelmed it's because I'm so happy. I always expected to be alone. And I'm just so happy right now. I feel as if I may float out of my skin."

John pulled Sherlock close, "You're not the only one. Hamish is thrilled, and he's more at ease around other kids. You've taught him a lot, Sherlock Holmes, about how to rein in his abilities and when to use them for good and not for evil," John laughed, working at a way to express to Sherlock how much everything means to him, to his son, "We both love you. I know I've been a sappy mess lately, but it's because you're amazing. You're perfect for us."

John and Sherlock began crying, again, tears running down their faces as they smiled. They kissed each other, tasting the salt and saliva. At that moment, Hamish stepped out of the laboratory. He was wearing his new black fireproof apron, his adult sized eye goggles, and a lit flame torch in one hand and blackened pig's ear held with pliers in the other. 

Hamish clicked the torch off, "Sorry, was the smell causing your eyes to water? I don't know that I've calibrated the ventilation system quite right yet."

John leaned away from Sherlock, looking from one to the other, "You bought my son a pig's ear, and a blow torch?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, then shut it. He turned and looked at Hamish, who shrugged his shoulders, "Mr. Detective said he dissected his first human cadaver at age 10. I figured this was a good work up to it."

John crossed his arms, then wagged his finger at both of them, "Absolutely no cadavers!"

Hamish looked at Sherlock, "I can deal with that," he flipped the flame torch back on with a click, and disappeared back into the laboratory. 

Sherlock took one look at John's face. He followed Hamish into the lab.


	3. Dreaming Awake

Sherlock and John had spent the entire day unpacking and organizing the flat so they could make it through the rooms without tripping over books, clothes, and chemistry sets. John was amazed that Sherlock was willing to stay around the house for a few days while they all settled in. Sherlock's flat was now decorated with a messy blend of all their personalities: oil artwork of Mrs. Hudson's, a full medical skeleton of John's, Hamish's set of antique chemist beakers on a shelf, and the wall above the couch covered with maps and diagrams of Sherlock's latest case. 

John took a moment to review his and Sherlock's bedroom. He hadn't lived with anyone since University or the Army. Living with Sherlock, spending his mornings and evenings with him, would be an altogether different arrangement. John had been looking forward to staying over with Sherlock rather than spending so much extra time traveling back and forth between his old flat and Sherlock's. 

Hamish, John, and Sherlock sat on the floor of the sitting room with a bottle of sparking grape juice and three tumblers. John raised his glass in a toast to Hamish and Sherlock, "To the three of us." Hamish grinned, drinking his juice in one gulp, leaving behind a red streak above his upper lip. John reached over and wiped the juice away with the sleeve of his long T-Shirt. Hamish giggled. 

"I've got to run one more experiment with Mr. Detective. He's helping Uncle Greg with the case on the jealous babysitter. Uncle Greg isn't sure if it's the wife or the babysitter, so Mr. Detective is having to run analysis on everything in the house to see if they can pin down the murder weapon, " Hamish yawned, "I have school tomorrow, so I need to get the blood run to see what type it is-"

John gave Sherlock a look and Sherlock just smiled back. John recalled the first weeks of knowing Sherlock, and he didn't remember Sherlock smiling nearly this much. He knew that during that time he'd been nursing broken ribs, but he liked to think his happier demeanor had something to do with John and Hamish. He was no longer alone, but he had others who shared in their adventures. 

"Actually, young man," John said as he took Hamish's glass, "It seems that you need a small nap. After your nap you and Mr. Detective can go back to playing with your blood samples and whatnot."

Hamish crossed his arms and puffed out his lower lip, "Enough of that, I won't have two scientists that pout around here. To your room."

Hamish stomped as he walked, but he did make his way to his room, muttering under his breath, "We're chemists, daddy, not scientists."

As Hamish kicked off his shoes and climbed under the covers, John closed the drapes and turned on his son's CD player. The music was a recording of Sherlock playing various violin arrangements. The doctor couldn't recall a time when he felt happier. He was in a new home, with someone he loved, with someone who also loved his son. John stood in the doorway, leaning against it, watching as Hamish's breathing became more even and he drifted to sleep. He jumped when Sherlock came behind him, wrapping his arms around his middle. 

"I wish you would have been there, Sherlock," he pulled Sherlock's hands up to his mouth, ghosting kisses across his knuckles, "when he was a baby and I was working and sleep deprived. I wish you could have seen him. He was so wild, even as a baby. Up all night, I couldn't get him on a schedule for anything. You would have loved him. I would have loved having you with me then."

John turned and reached up on his toes to kiss Sherlock's mouth. They'd been apart for what felt like months, as all the packing and moving had left them exhausted. Sherlock whispered mischievously into John's ear, "He's asleep," and pulled John into their bedroom. John's belly heated with the thought that they had a bedroom, together, where their clothes hung side by side, where they had their slippers underneath the bed, and their end tables contained accessories that they didn't dare want Hamish to get into. 

"Sshh… Sherlock, you'll have to be quiet," John pulled on Sherlock's belt loops, dragging him into the empty floor in front of the closet. Up against the walls were still piled a few boxes, "The floor will be quieter."

Sherlock shook his head, "John, he needs to get used to us. He knows we're together." Sherlock turned, surprising him with his strength, putting John on his back on the bed. They scrambled at each other, pulling off their clothes. Sherlock leaned to the drawer and pulled out a bottle of lube, coating his fingers before stretching John. 

They moaned into each other's mouths, Sherlock doing his best to quiet John's yelps and cries as Sherlock entered him. Sherlock wrapped his arms underneath John, the only sound in the room their breath and the slick of skin and Sherlock's hips snapping against John's. 

John pulled Sherlock's face down for another kiss, running his fingers through Sherlock's curls, tracing his fingers across his cheekbone. As he came, spilling over onto their bellies, he felt tears creep down his face. Sherlock gingerly kissed them away. As John pulsed around Sherlock, he cried, "I'm coming, John," John shushed him with another kiss. 

Sleepy, they had enough presence of mind to cover each other with a sheet. John tucked himself into the crook of Sherlock's neck, still breathing heavily. Sherlock tenderly ran his fingers through John's hair and kissed his forehead as John drifted to sleep. 

They slept until Hamish pounded on the door, wondering why they would take a nap if they were adults. 

"When I'm an adult I'm never taking a nap," Hamish huffed, "I'm going to be a grown up that never takes naps."

John and Sherlock dissolved into a fit of giggles. They laid in the bed a few more minutes as they listened to Hamish in his bedroom working with his equipment. 

Sherlock pulled John close, "I'm going back to work tomorrow. If that works for you? If Hamish will have tutoring set up."

John nodded. He felt tears prick his eyes again, "Sorry, Sherlock, I don't know why I'm so weepy today. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," he said, lifting himself and John so they leaned back against the headboard, John still tucked against his side, "Are you happy? Overwhelmed?" Sherlock wiped away John's tears, keeping his arms wrapped tightly around him. 

"I guess," John's voice was shaking, "it's just I have been alone for so long. I've had to work while I've been sick. I've been exhausted. I've never had anyone else around for years. It just hit me. You're here. With us. I'm not alone. I'm not doing all this by myself anymore."

John met Sherlock's eyes and he felt a burning urge to ask him, immediately, to marry him. He loved him so much, and he didn't want to be away from his side. Sherlock looked at him with such burning intensity, he leaned down and kissed John so deeply it curled his toes. John pulled back, "Sherlock, I need to-"

John was cut off by a yelp from the doorway, "You two weren't taking a nap. You were kissing in here! Gross." 

John leaned over, making sure he was still covered, and snapped the door back shut, "Thank you for your input!" John looked back at Sherlock. His eyes were blue green, soft, and absolutely focused on John. He wanted to ask him, but now wasn't the right time. 

Sherlock smiled, "I'll get a lock for the door. We should probably get up and get dressed. See what he's up to."

John smiled at his love, running his fingers through his hair one last time before getting out of bed.


	4. Daring Escape

John didn’t pay much attention to Hamish as he fussed in his bedroom and laboratory. He was happy that Sherlock and his son were getting along, though the stretches of silence did worry him at times. He was leaving the sitting room to go down the hallway to help Mrs. Hudson with something when he saw Sherlock and Hamish on the floor of the lab, huddled over an experiment. John knew Sherlock had grown up too fast and was reliving some of his childhood, his best memories, with Hamish.

John had felt guilt at times, cleaning, repairing the house, but Sherlock was here. At least in between cases. From the first days of dating Sherlock he knew he was committed. He couldn't tell if the commitment was more of Hamish's devotion to Sherlock or his. It must have been an equal blend of both. Falling in love with Mr. Detective was not euphoric, or dizzying, but the completion of a puzzle, or of rest after hours and years of difficult labor, or finding the perfect home to match everything they didn't know they needed. 

Today, John was covered in paint splatter and caulk. Mrs. Hudson had moved everything from her old apartment into her room and had sold the rest. Not wanting to infringe on the boys' space, she was hesitant to let any of her furniture or decorations leave her room. "Nonsense," Sherlock had huffed, waving his hand dismissively, "John will be happy to move some of your belongings to the sitting room and decorate the walls with your paintings." 

John had given Sherlock a pointed glare. Sherlock then wrapped his arms around John, whispering promises to make it up to him with the _"most spectacular blow job you will ever receive."_ Later that night, John had bounced on the bed, banging the headboard into the wall, cracking the plaster off in chunks onto the carpet. Mrs. Hudson giggled as she walked past their bedroom, watching John reorganize the bed so it was in the middle of the room and patch and repaint the wall. They were all negotiating their relationship and their boundaries, and learning how to share space. Sometimes learning new things about one another that they'd rather not have known. 

After two hours of painting and patching the wall, he hadn't heard much from Sherlock and Hamish. John had determined immediately that he'd be responsible for both of his boys in making sure they were fed and taken care of. He was resigned that he would need to interrupt their work in the lab frequently to remind them to eat and sleep. He knocked on the door of Hamish's bedroom and lab. There was no answer. He knocked again. Nothing. John opened the door and found the room empty except for paperwork strewn across the floor. Anything graphic was strategically covered with post it notes, but the large color photographs were clearly from a murder scene, and at first glance some type of murder suicide. John huffed in a breath and crossed his arms when he noticed yellow pads covered in both Hamish's detailed print and Sherlock's scrawl. 

John didn’t bother texting. He took out his phone and dialed. No answer, rang straight to Sherlock's voicemail. He didn't even consider how he was dressed. He ran down the stairs, hollering down as he opened the door, "I'll be back, Mrs. Hudson!" 

John tried to call Sherlock a few more times in the cab, but there was still no answer. Straight to voicemail. When he got to St. Bart's he threw some bills at the cabbie, unsure if he'd horribly over or underpaid her. He went floor to floor, asking after him in his usual haunts. The processing room. The cold freeze. The intake. Finally, he reached the lab off of the main morgue floor and found Hamish huddled over a microscope and Sherlock and a female, most likely an autopsy tech or a medical examiner or pathologist. There was a bone saw and a face shield, both dirty, just a few inches from his son. 

John burst threw the door, snapping it open. He honestly didn't mean to thump it against the other side (more drywall and plaster he'd cracked) but he was terrified when his son had been missing for nearly an hour. He was sure he'd been with Sherlock, but that wasn't the point. While John was working, the two of them had just vanished from the flat without a word. The young woman in the white lab coat jumped, pulling her clipboard to her chest, "I'm sorry sir, this area is restricted, and I don't show you're escorted or with a visitor's badge-"

Hamish was still looking into the microscope, completely laser focused and unfazed. Sherlock spoke up, nearly timid, "He's with me, he's my-"

"Oh!" She beamed, oblivious to the look John was giving Sherlock, "You're _the John_. Sherlock is absolutely so different with you. I'm so happy to meet you. Sherlock had been alone for so long. This is wonderful-"

Sherlock coughed, "Molly, can we be alone for a bit? It looks like John wants to talk to me." 

The medical examiner, John could now see the title from her badge, tilted her head and looked into John's face. Her mouth formed a silent 'o', and she sneaked out behind John, closing the door with a soft click. John moved in front of Sherlock, pulling him away from Hamish around the corner by a fridge. The young boy was still oblivious, his eyes squinting into the magnifiers. John knew his son would only respond when he was ready. 

"Sherlock, what in the _world_ were you thinking?" John put his fingers under his chin, keeping Sherlock's eyes from wearing a hole in the floor. The doctor crossed his arms and huffed a breath, relaxing his pose when he saw some moisture in Sherlock's grey blue eyes. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, then began speaking at a thunderous pace, "John, I….I don't have an excuse. He was really curious. I covered up everything that I thought would cause a boy of his age nightmares. He's so smart, John. I want him to know his intelligence doesn't make him weird, that Dr. Molly Hooper is smart and she's different, but she's made a great career, and I'm smart and different, but I've built something for myself to help others. I don't want him to feel alone-"

John put his hands on both of Sherlock's arms, putting them to his sides, stopping both the tirade of words and the distressed hand gestures that accompanied them. The two men stared at each other a moment, the silence only broken by Hamish's adjustment of the microscope dials.

"Sherlock, do you think I'm upset because you brought Hamish to St. Bart's?" 

"Well, I mean it's not where most 8 year olds would spend their time-" 

John pulled Sherlock in for a quick kiss, "Sherlock, Mike Stamford teaches here. He's one of my other best mates. Hamish and I meet him in his office once a week for fish and chips. He discusses interesting cases. My best friend is Greg. Hamish and his girls play detective and murder investigations. Yes, it's weird when they get around other families sometimes, they think it's a bit morbid, but I'm not upset. I normally don't let him mess around with the equipment-"

Sherlock was crying now. Just a few tears, "You don't hate me? You don't think I'm a freak?" God, John loved him. This sweet brilliant man. He had never felt such an ache in his chest to be close to someone else. Constantly. 

"Sherlock, no. I love you. I can't believe we didn't meet sooner. We are around the same people and in the same circles. I was mad you left without telling me. That's all. You're not a freak. At all. You fit right in."

Sherlock sniffled, and John gathered him up in his arms, tipping him back like a swooning heroine. He whispered into his ear, "I fixed the wall. I moved the bed. I'm going to show you how much I absolutely love you. Keep Hamish busy so he sleeps well tonight," John kissed him deeply, "Actually, I may see if we can get the flat to ourselves. We haven't even been in all the rooms yet."

John delighted in Sherlock's wide eyed look, and then the bright smile that took over his face. John knew that this was the place _where_ he would propose. He just needed to work on the other details. They continued kissing, holding onto one another, ignoring Hamish's pleas that "he couldn't possibly process the blood sample with all that noise going on."


	5. Surprise Fall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Check out this sweet fanart from be-there-now-in-a-minute that inspired chap 5. ](http://jurgbury.tumblr.com/post/115610783657/be-there-now-in-a-minute-jurgbury/embed)

Hamish, Sherlock, and John were in the sitting room. Hamish's 9th birthday was approaching and he was sketching out ideas for his party. He sat on the floor with his head leaning back against the couch. John sat on the couch, flipping through a newspaper absent-mindedly. Sherlock was laid out, his head in John's lap.

Hamish put his pencil down, turning so he could look at John and Sherlock, "How do you know when you love someone?"

John wanted to look at Sherlock but he kept his gaze steadily on his son. He debated a moment on how to answer, or why Hamish felt the need to ask the question. His son's mind was always 15 steps ahead, so he decided to proceed the way he normally did. Asking for clarification. 

"Why do you ask? Do you think you're in love?"

Sherlock shifted in his lap and John drew in a breath and bit his lip. Desire struck him suddenly, Sherlock's inky curls were irresistible, but he needed to focus. _Now was not the time._

Hamish's eyes flitted from John to Sherlock, "Well, _you two_ are in love. And not just infatuation. You've made a long term commitment and you are involved in each other's work," John felt Sherlock sit up at his statement. John took a moment to adjust himself, "And you've rearranged your lives to fit better into one another's. I can see you love each other. Which is different than being in love."

John didn't quite understand, but he didn't stop him, "However, I'm not sure how to recognize this in myself. I know what you're thinking, dad, that I'm too young. But in 3 to 4 years I will reach puberty, and this is an important age to begin discussing feelings before the onslaught of hormones and body changes that may cause my rational mind to take a backseat for a while. There is the state of being _in love_ , which I won't understand if I don't understand what it means _to love_."

In the past, there had been discussions like this when John just had to shut down momentarily in order to process information and then return to his son. There were so many blank minutes and hours that John had to explain weren't angry silences, but were honestly his time to research whatever Hamish had said. Now was one of those times. Within the span of a few minutes Hamish had thrown so much information at him he was unsure what to say. 

Raising Hamish now was different. Sherlock was here, and his mind whirred at a breakneck pace, keeping more in line with his son than anyone else he'd ever met. Sherlock leaned forward on the chair, meeting Hamish's eyes, "Based on the order in which you explained yourself, I am assuming you are unsure where to draw the line between immature infatuation and honest love and mutual respect of another person? You're unsure how to recognize what is honest love you may feel for someone else?"

Hamish nodded, leaning towards Sherlock. Then Hamish smiled, brightly. John thought his heart would burst. Hamish knew John loved him, but his discussions of any sort were so wrapped in logic that John couldn't keep up. 

Sherlock continued, "Are you concerned that you are in love or infatuated with a girl or boy at school?"

Hamish looked at Sherlock as if he'd grown three heads. John was so familiar with that look. It was Hamish's, _why must I be straddled with all these insufferable idiot peasants_ look. Hamish did his best to bite his tongue, and give himself a moment to come back with an answer that wasn't harsh, "No, no. It's not romantic love. It's parental love, or familial love."

As he explained this, Hamish got on the couch and sat next to Sherlock. John leaned forward a bit so he could see Hamish from around Sherlock. The three of them were lined up on the couch, right in a row, John and Sherlock watching Hamish. 

Hamish started again, looking from his father to Sherlock, "Well, I was talking about my birthday party with Melissa and Amanda. They wanted to know if Mr. Detective was coming. They know he's living with us. They asked if he's daddy's boyfriend, and I wasn't sure how to answer. They then asked if I had two daddies now, like they have two daddies, and I didn't know the answer to that question, either."

Hamish addressed Sherlock directly, "I know you're important to us, but the words we use aren't quite right. But I wasn't sure how to ask you what to call you."

Sherlock blinked at Hamish. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Hamish continued. 

"I don't think Mr. Detective quite fits anymore. I'd like to call you Papa, if you wouldn't be offended. I didn't consider you my second daddy, or my other daddy, until Amanda suggested it. But I realize that it fits very much with how I feel. I want you around forever, and I think daddy does, too."

John felt Sherlock lean away from him and lean towards Hamish, "You were worried about being able to call me Papa?"

Hamish looked at Sherlock, his voice wavering, "Yes. I wasn't sure if you'd object. If I call you my Papa, is that ok?"

Sherlock didn't answer for a moment. John put his hand on Sherlock's back, rubbing small circles in between his shoulder blades, "That's more than ok. That would be wonderful."

"Ok!" Hamish beamed. He hopped off the couch and went back to his stack of papers, working through the guest list and activities for his birthday party. John felt tears pricking at his eyes as Sherlock turned to look at him. Sherlock rubbed the pad of his thumb under John's eyes, wiping the tears away. Sherlock leaned in, kissing John deeply. "I love you so much," he breathed, loud enough for both Hamish and John to hear. 

Hamish didn't chastise them for the kiss. 

\-----

The rest of the day John and Sherlock spent in the flat, cleaning and straightening it up. Mrs. Hudson was traveling over the weekend and the two men would help Greg the next week with a rather involved and difficult cold case. Unbeknownst to Sherlock, John arranged for his parents to pick up Hamish for the rest of the weekend. 

Hamish had been gone for forty-five minutes when John caught Sherlock talking into Hamish's empty room, explaining that it was "impossible for the killer to have put vinegar in the sink after that type of cleaner as the combination would have caused a mustard gas reactive."

John laughed, drying his hands on a dish towel and coming up behind Sherlock to tickle his fingers around his stomach. He continued chuckling into Sherlock's neck as he delicately kissed his skin, "Sweetheart, it's just the two of us. Mrs. Hudson and Hamish are gone."

Sherlock ducked his head down and grabbed John's arms. They were now flush, John's front tucked against Sherlock's back, "I didn't notice that he'd left. So we are alone?"

John nodded. 

They looked at one another for just a beat, then Sherlock turned with a spin of his heel. Every encounter between them had been quiet and in the middle of the night to avoid disturbing Hamish or Mrs. Hudson. It was midday, the sun was bright, and they were completely alone. The two men took advantage of the privacy. They moaned into each other's mouths, grabbing onto one another, giggling as they pulled ran each other over to get to the bedroom.

"You sent everyone away?" Sherlock asks in wonder. He pulls on John's shirt as he moves onto the bed, falling backwards with a huff. 

"Yes," John crawls over Sherlock, kissing up Sherlock's torso as he pulls up on the taller man's shirt. For a moment they both scramble with each other's clothes, finally dissolving into breathless giggles. 

"I don't know if I've seen you naked in daylight. Your skin is golden, beautiful," Sherlock muses, both men resigned to stripping their own clothing. John laid his naked body on top of Sherlock, squirming against him, grinding his hips down. 

"Please, John, please," Sherlock whined, "Please love."

John reached over him into the bedside table, finding the bottle of lube. He flipped the lid open, spilling a fair amount on Sherlock's side. Sherlock barked out a laugh, dragging his fingers through the cool liquid. 

"We are a mess," he huffed, covering John's erection in the lubricant. He moved his fingers and wrist in a circular motion, alternating with a light flutter against his balls. John grabbed Sherlock's arse, turning and rearranging one another so they each laid on their side. 

"You're too far away, beautiful," John pulled Sherlock close, spooning him, resting the back of his thighs against the top of John's. They both moved against one another, John grinding up into the cleft of Sherlock's arse, Sherlock thrusting his pelvis downward as he stroked himself. 

"Oh my god, Sherlock," John nipped and kissed at the back of Sherlock's neck, circling Sherlock's entrance with his left fingers. He focused on his breathing as his hips and legs shook, already pushing into Sherlock's flesh. John lifted Sherlock's left leg so he could watch himself enter Sherlock's body, shuddering as he grasped at Sherlock's chest, gripping his thigh with his other hand. John felt so deep inside Sherlock, surrounded by him, nearly all of their bodies pushing and pressing into one another. 

They smacked against their flesh, sweating, growling and yelling. John had never felt this way about anyone. He loved him so dearly. He turned Sherlock's jaw back towards him to nip kisses at him, almost slipping completely out of him. 

"Sherlock, Sherlock," John moaned, feeling against his lover's neck, keeping time with the pulse point there, "I love you. I've never loved anyone like this. I love you."

Sherlock didn't speak but moved his hand backwards to grab John's hip and urge him to push in deeper. They rocked and undulated against one another. Sherlock turned inward to give himself enough friction to rut against the bed, crying out and coming with shaken, broken noises. 

John rolled him over on his stomach, snapping his hips and body down into Sherlock's, coming quickly. He collapsed on top of the detective, leaving a trail of kisses against his nape curls as he rolled off onto his back. 

They didn't move for a moment. They breathed, Sherlock on his stomach, John on his back. They turned their heads to look at one another. John touched his lips, they were incredibly swollen. Sherlock took his fingers, linking them together. 

"That felt," Sherlock began, scooting closer to John so their noses almost touched, "absolutely extraordinary. You were so close to me. I could feel you. Your pulse. Your breath."

"Yea," John said, blinking lazily, his fingers pushing Sherlock's hair out of his face. 

"You love my hair," Sherlock grinned, rolling his eyes up as he tried to pick some lubricant out of his fringe, "You can't stop touching it, even when your hands are disgusting."

John smiled, pulling himself to Sherlock, "I can't stop touching you. Yes, I'm rather fond of your hair. But I love you."

They changed the sheets, leaving the sticky ones on the floor. They were tired, and had every intention of sleeping, but the ended up facing one another and talking. They discussed plans, Hamish, and their parents. They debated over the kind of furniture to buy for the sitting room. Sherlock, his face bright red, complimented John on his repair of the wall. 

As Sherlock talked, his one arm out of the sheet so he could gesture, John was struck again. This beautiful, wonderful man had let them into his life and John didn't want to leave. John knew what he would say during the proposal, the outline at least. It formed in his mind on a Saturday afternoon, as John watched Sherlock talk, his skin flush and glistening from lovemaking.


	6. Interrupted Sleep

The three boys and Mrs. Hudson found their particular way of life very agreeable. They all had enough space in the flat to be by themselves when needed, but they never felt lonely. Mrs. Hudson was happy to keep Hamish with her when John and Sherlock had to bound away on cases. John never got tired of watching Sherlock's mind work. His quick deductions, his conclusions drawn based on small amounts of available evidence. He loved Sherlock most when he could see him becoming impatient or angry with someone who didn't understand. He could almost hear Sherlock's inner monologue, as he'd taught Hamish to understand as well, "No one has a mind like you. But if you're cruel in reminding everyone how brilliant you are and how slow they are, you will be brilliant, Hamish. But you will be _alone_." 

The battle between kindness and sharpness was never more difficult on this case. They had been running on little sleep and caffeine for three days trying to catch a kidnapper. Without question, the two men put their all into kidnapping cases. When Anderson, a snarky crime investigator, thoroughly botched up crime scene photos Sherlock came unglued. The two men got into a shouting match that John and Greg had to get in between. As John put himself in front of Sherlock, he made an off-hand comment, "The photos won't help Sherlock. The kidnapper is too smart for that to make a difference."

Sherlock stopped in the middle of flailing his arms at Anderson and wrapped his hands around John's face instead. He gave John a loud kiss, "Brilliant! You're right. I knew there was something off. I bet they're staged scenes somehow."

Twelve hours later, Sherlock broke the case, easily determining it was the babysitter. She had become pregnant by the father of her charges, and she was out for monetary compensation and revenge. 

After it was solved, nearly four days into the case, they were able to go home. They collapsed into bed, dead to the world. When Sherlock slept, he crashed and couldn't be roused for anything. John, for years he'd been used to adrenaline and sleep in small doses, always woke up after four hours as if he were on a hospital or a base rotation. It was inconvenient. 

John spent the better part of the rest of the day in bed watching Sherlock sleep. He was beautiful. There was no other word for him. Handsome, certainly. Gorgeous could apply. But beautiful, in John's mind, fit his body and soul. As he watched Sherlock, _beautiful_ , sleep, he traced patterns lightly over his cream colored back. He traced circles and lines, running the marriage proposal over in his mind a few more times. 

It was rapidly becoming his favorite fantasy, that Sherlock would say yes to becoming his husband. Would he be surprised, or embarrassed, or would he be so completely shocked into silence? John felt sure in his relationship with Sherlock, that he would say yes if the timing was right. They fit together so well, he didn't consider a life where they wouldn't be together forever. 

As he was running his fingertips over Sherlock's back he fell into another wave of sleep. He woke again when the room was dark, and he jumped a bit when he realized he was alone in a cold bed. He stood up, falling back down when the blood rushed back to his head. He heard voices in the living room, Sherlock and Hamish, discussing something in hushed tones. He dressed, peeking around the bedroom door. 

It was after midnight. Hamish was holding his stuffed rabbit, his favorite toy when he had a nightmare. He was on the couch, on Sherlock's lap, sniffling and holding onto Sherlock's shirt. Mrs. Hudson had mentioned that Hamish had been more upset lately whenever he'd played with other children. He'd deduced all kinds of information about them, and no one wanted to play with him. Watching Hamish cry, John's first instinct was to run into the living room and help. He stopped himself. 

_Sherlock is Hamish's dad, too. His papa._

He felt his breath catch as he heard bits of Sherlock's conversation. _Different… hard to understand …. Kids will get to know you …. Love you …. Find those …_

John heard Hamish's voice clearly, brightly asking even though it was hitched with sobbing, "Is that why you love and want to marry daddy? Because he loves you? All the parts of you?"

John covered his mouth with his hand. He felt bad for eavesdropping. Whatever the two of them were discussing needed to be kept between them, but he couldn't keep his eyes off of them. He was transfixed by the look on Sherlock's face, and the way he held Hamish close to him. The tear and snot stained shirt that Hamish held in a death grip in one hand and his rabbit in the other. Sherlock's face conveyed such love and concern, completely focused on the young boy. John noticed, in the pale light of the lamp, how Hamish's face was thinning and he was growing into his longer limbs. 

Sherlock stroked Hamish's hair back from his face. It reminded John of how he would run his hands through his hair in the morning, "I do love your daddy because he loves me just as I am. He doesn't call me a freak, or think I'm strange. But I have to be kind to him. And help him with things around the house. I don't like to do those things, and I lose my temper. But I try to be better. For him. Because I love him."

The smiles on Sherlock's and Hamish's faces were nearly blinding. He heard them continue to talk in whispers. John slowly stepped backwards and silently slid back into bed, grinning to himself. 

\-----

John woke to a smell of pancakes and the sound of giggles. His back ached from being in and out of bed for most of the last 24 hours. As he rolled up and sat on the edge of the bed, he heard Hamish yell, "Papa, Daddy's finally awake!"

Hamish bounded into the room, pushing John back onto the bed with a huff, "Daddy, wait, we're not _ready._ Stay put!"

John sat back, listening to the sounds of clanging pans and drawers opening and closing. The flat was silent, then the sound of a violin drifted into the bedroom. A lovely, upbeat melody accompanied Hamish as he carried a breakfast tray packed with food with a rose in a vase. Hamish was biting his lip in concentration, trying so carefully to hold the tray level. 

As Hamish brought the tray to John, who had now scooted back to lean his back against the headboard, the melody switched. 

_Pachelbel's Canon in D._

_A popular wedding song._

Sherlock had his violin to his chin, and was playing as he followed Hamish into the bedroom. Hamish grinned as he placed the breakfast tray over John's lap. As Sherlock played the melody, John felt his eyes misting. John noticed Sherlock holding his violin bow at an awkward, upturned angle as he played, and he realized why. 

At the end of his bow was a glint of gold. 

A ring. John couldn't believe it. He'd been rehearsing, practicing, thinking over how to propose for weeks. Here, he'd been beaten to the punch. He saw Hamish smile, "I told you, Papa, he wanted to propose, too!" Sherlock smiled, but continued to play, not speaking. He turned to face John, continuing with the well-known wedding melody, gently setting on the edge of the bed. As he ended the song, Hamish jumped up a bit, clapping his hands. He was grinning from ear to ear. Sherlock picked his bow up gingerly and took the ring off of the end, unwrapping it from the fishing line that held it in place. 

Sherlock turned to Hamish before he began, "Are you still ok with this, Hamish? Do I still have your permission?"

Hamish bounced up and down, grasping his hands in front of his face. He was absolutely buzzing, "Yes, papa!"

Sherlock set his violin down, holding only the ring. John could see just a slight tremor in his fingers. The detective reached around the breakfast tray and took John's left hand in his. He kept his eyes down, rubbing his fingers across John's knuckles before positioning the ring on the end of his finger. But he didn't put it on. Sherlock lifted his eyes, looking into John's face. 

"John, I was so alone before I met you and Hamish. It was pure luck that you came upon me at that crime scene. You saved my life," at this, Sherlock shakes his head, tears are beginning to form in his eyes, "I could've died in that alley, but you saved me. I never expected to be loved by someone like you. You are perfect for me. You don't think I'm strange. You love me for who I am. You both feel like my family and I want to make you my family, officially. John Hamish Watson, will you marry me?"

John felt Sherlock's warm fingers upon his. He grinned, looking at Hamish and then back at Sherlock. Hamish looked as if it were Christmas morning. John kept his eye contact with Sherlock while encouraging him to put the ring on him by moving his fingers. 

"Yes, Sherlock, I would be honored to marry you. I would love to be your husband."

The ring was slipped onto John's finger, and the tray was nearly tipped as Sherlock crawled around him on the bed and kissed him. Hamish jumped up and down, grinning, interrupting the kiss. "Daddy, daddy, are you happy, daddy? I know you probably wanted to propose but papa loves you so much he couldn't wait."

John laughed, "I think someone else couldn't wait, either." Hamish sat on the other side of his daddy, picking at the breakfast tray as John and Sherlock admired the ring on John's finger. Sherlock took his time kissing John, running his finger over the ring, explaining to John how he and Hamish had picked out a ring that was yellow gold to match John's hair. 

John grinned, pulling Sherlock and Hamish close. Hamish giggled, "We'll need to get you a matching ring, then, papa!" Hamish looked at his daddy's face, then crinkled his eyebrows, "Oh, I think daddy was looking at white gold. It goes more with the army tags he also wanted to give you."

Sherlock looked at John, "Did you tell him that?"

Before John could answer, Hamish started in, "No, daddy didn't have to tell me, papa. I noticed he got his box down of army memories. In there is his tags, and on his computer history he'd been searching chains. Silver or white gold chains. Something like that he wouldn't erase from his history. Daddy likes things that match, so he wouldn't buy you a chain of yellow gold and a ring in white gold. We've also walked a different route to the park that goes by a jeweler. Daddy thinks I don't notice but every time he stops just a bit. His eyes linger on the men's wedding rings, especially on the platinum or the white gold ones. That's what daddy was going to buy you."

John and Sherlock watched Hamish for a moment. John felt Sherlock squeeze his left hand, his finger pinched by the unfamiliar tug of the new ring on his finger. 

"Amazing," Sherlock whispered. 

Hamish grinned, snuggling in closer to his daddy, "He's been going to Bart's lately, wandering around whenever we meet Mr. Stamford for lunch. He's gone into the different areas where you do your experiments, papa, peeking into different rooms and classrooms. He wanted to propose somewhere in there, since that's where he went to school and where you work sometimes. It's something you both have in common. Also, that you two have been in that building together hundreds of times but never met until the timing was right. You met at a crime scene. Completely by accident."

Sherlock took the half eaten breakfast tray off of the bed, leaving the vase with the rose on the end table. As he sat back down, John grabbed him around the waist, pulling him close. Sherlock grinned as Hamish continued to explain, "I know that daddy loves you, papa, because we were lonely, too, before we met you. Daddy is so much happier with you here. He laughs so much more with you around, and he doesn't stay up all night after having his army nightmares."

John looked at Hamish, "Yes, that's about right."

Hamish tilted his head to the side, "What am I missing, daddy?"

John looked from Sherlock to Hamish, "I also love Sherlock because he loves _you_ , Hamish, and you love him back. I love how you make each other better, how there are parts of you, Hamish, that I cannot keep up with. I want to, but my brain doesn't work like a scientist, or a chemist. I don't understand what you're talking about. You two, you and Papa, fit together like peas in a pod. I never thought…" John feels his eyes well up and his voice catches. 

"I never thought I would either, daddy." At this, Hamish is crying. Large tears spilling down his face.

John wrapped his arms around the loves of his life, pulling them close. They were content to sit and talk, to hold each other, and just be together. The beginning of promises. The beginning of the rest of their lives. 

Forever. 

John sighed, gingerly wiping away Hamish's tears, "Thank you, both of you. I've never felt more loved. This was perfect. Even though you beat me to the proposal I wanted to give."

Sherlock smiled, "You and Hamish can plan the wedding," Sherlock kissed John, pulling his face close, "I'm sorry if we ruined your surprise. We just couldn't wait."

John shook his head, "My impatient, brilliant geniuses. I am certainly outnumbered with you two." Hamish sat on John's lap at this statement, knocking into John's ribcage with his elbow, "No, daddy, you're not outnumbered. We're the three of us, together. A detective, a chemist, and an army doctor. The only three in the world."

"I like that," John grinned, happy with how his life was so different from a year ago. Challenges were still present, but he wouldn't be alone. He had a partner, a partner that understood both him, and his son. Happy wasn't even the proper word. Content, relieved, whole. His family, complete, "I like that, the only three in the world. No one else like us." 

After Hamish had fallen asleep on their bed, as Sherlock and Hamish had spent most of the night before awake in nervous anticipation, John led Sherlock to the sitting room and pulled his army tags out of a nondescript box under the couch. John pulled Sherlock down by the collar of his T-Shirt, placing the tags over his neck. 

"I didn't get the nice chain Hamish was talking about. I was still picking which one," John felt his cheeks turn pink, "But I would like to. Maybe get you a very durable ring that will last through all the experiments you do."

Sherlock didn't answer, pulling John into a passionate kiss. Teeth, and tongue, and a rock of hips against one another. "Whatever you want, John. All I can find myself thinking about is a honeymoon, however. A proper, long, holiday. Just the two of us. I love our family, Mrs. Hudson and Hamish, but I am selfish, and I want some time alone with my _husband_."

"Husband," John grinned, lightly tracing his fingers over the dip in Sherlock's spine, "I love how that sounds."

Sherlock grinned, "Yes, I love that word. Husband. I love that I am a _papa_ now. I would like the other title as soon as possible." 

John held him close, whispering in his ear, "Fiancée for a while, beautiful. Then husband."

_Beautiful. Husband._

_Perfect._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remember reading a real life proposal or in a novel of someone playing cello or violin with a ring on the end. I couldn't find it, but I loved it. I meant this as an homage to whatever I read that had it in it, all credit to the original idea or proposal.

**Author's Note:**

> Story is completed but I will be posting the 6 chapters over time.


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